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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24825931">leg of the dog that bit you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account'>orphan_account</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Midnight Gospel (Cartoon)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Drunk Sex, F/M, M/M, Phone Sex, Sibling Incest, clancys canonical pussy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 03:54:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,302</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24825931</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hello?” </p><p>You swallow so hard. <br/><i>Don’tpukedon’tpukedon’tpukedon’tpuke.</i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clancy Gilroy/Sarah Gilroy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>leg of the dog that bit you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>why the fuck arent there character tags for this fandom i have to do everything myself around here</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“C’mon, c’mon c’mon.” </p><p>On instinct, you stick out your foot and push on the edge of your shelf, spinning yourself around, and instantly pay for it by having to choke down a tight burn of acid up your throat. Fucking stupid. </p><p>“Come on,” you say again, to nobody, but only to nobody because she won’t pick up the fucking phone; just a drawn-out dial tone echoing in your ears. You’ve always sort of wondered if an operator— or whatever it was they were called, one of those fifties ladies sat at switchboards— was listening in while the phone rang, if that’s still a thing, if that was ever a thing, really. Back in the day, did those switchboard ladies have to listen to every dumbass muttering into the receiver and thinking he was alone with his bitching? </p><p>Beep; <i> your call has not been...</i> </p><p>“Motherfucker.” Your phone turned off while you were waiting, so you have to hunt for your contacts all over again. Be easier if you could just remember her fucken’ number on the first try— if you could tap the finicky goddamn buttons on your phone without them blurring and shifting into useless smears of LED— but the only number you ever memorized was your mom’s, way-back-when, with a little ditty jingle to go with it and pace the numbers out into a tune that’d stick in your kidmind.</p><p>You find her number in the graveyard that is your recent voicemails and tap her contact photo until it redials. Fucking tech— you’re done with it, you swear, you’re going to throw anything you own that blinks and flashes and requires goddamn hand-eye coordination into the lake. </p><p>“That means you, too,” you say, and point at the simulator. </p><p>“I’m sorry?” He— it? Whatever— says.</p><p>“You’re going in the lake,” you say. </p><p>“Master, you—” </p><p>“Shh,” you say, bringing back that pointing finger and mashing it to your lips, “shh, shh. She better fucken’ pick up this time.” </p><p>If he— it— whatever responds, you aren’t listening. You’re humming; it takes you a second to realize that it’s Mom’s phone number song, against all odds you fucking remember it, and it aches to think about her. Alone with your thoughts and your head always dashes back to her as fast as it can, like prodding at an open wound, breaking off the scab to keep it stinging, fresh, and bloody. </p><p>Empty dialtone echoing in your ears. Your vision seizing and cramping and wobbling like the picture of the world is saran-wrap laid crooked over your eyeballs. Your body decides for you that you’d better prod at another open wound while you’re here; your fingers press the fabric of your skirt— kilt? Whatever— into your crotch, faint heat leaching through the fabric, faint damp. </p><p>Dialtone; beep; <i>your call has not been…</i></p><p>“Fuck,” you say, holding out the “uh” for as long as you can and then staring on the “-ck” with empty lungs, “fuckin’ bitch.” </p><p>You press redial before your phone goes back to sleep. Your hand is still between your legs; nonchalantly, like you’re not the one doing it, you press down, push up your hips. Why not? What the fuck else have you got to do? </p><p>You wedge the phone between your shoulder and ear and wiggle out of your skirtkiltwhatever, as usual moving in drunken swoops, every motion feeling like falling and catching yourself. It’s just a tube of fabric but it somehow tangles around your feet anyway; you leave it. You can cock your legs open all you need just like this. </p><p>Dialtone. </p><p>“Pick up, c’mon,” you say, habit like breathing, like you’re bargaining with the switchboard lady. The chair’s weird nappy cross-woven fabric feels gross against your ass, itchy and numb. </p><p>Dialtone. It’s too easy to slip your fingers inside of yourself, two at once like nothing, and it’s fucking nasty, almost, nasty and hot, oozing as a fullbody verb; yeah, yeah you’re oozing, look, you’re liquid, you’re dripping down the chair with all your limbs like snakes. </p><p>Dialtone would make a good band name. Maybe Dali Tone, like the fucken’ artist, y’know, kids like those artsy-fartsy asshole names, puns. </p><p>You stroke heavy with your fingers and your toes fucking curl up, you curl over and open your mouth to moan and a gag comes out when your stomach tries to crawl up your throat again, and that’s the exact fucking second the Dali Tones disband and the line sparks up and she goes, “Hello?” </p><p>You swallow so hard. <i>Don’tpukedon’tpukedon’tpukedon’tpuke.</i> </p><p>“Hello,” she says, again, and sounds a little impatient, confused maybe, like she doesn’t know who it is. Fucking Beaver Cleaver bit in your head, her waking up— or stopping on her way to bed, you don’t know what time zone she’s in anymore— and wondering aloud just <i>who</i> could be <i>calling</i> at this hour, and because you’re jacking off now, you guess, in this Beaver Cleaver pipedream she’s in one of those fluttery drifty featheredged dressing gown things, the kind that you can see right through, and her hair is beautiful, she’s beautiful, and you hate her. </p><p>“Sarah,” you say, slur, really, and don’t like that you sound relieved so you curl your fingers to put something different in your voice, “Sarah, fuck. Took you long enough.” </p><p>“Clancy?”</p><p>“No, it’s the fucking— Christmas fairy, sis.” </p><p>“Clancy,” she says, and there’s the tired fucking resignation you know so well, “what’s the matter?”</p><p>“Man, maybe everything’s great, maybe that’s why I’m calling,” you say, “why’s there gotta— gotta be a matter.” </p><p>“Are you drunk,” she says. All flat, not really asking, just confirming her own thought by voicing it. </p><p>This time, it’s like a self-flagellation when you rock down onto your hand, not even trying to stifle your gasp; let her hear, why not, what the fuck else are you supposed to do. You’re starting to sweat and you can feel it prick up from under your skin, the crook of your knees, behind your ears where your hair feels thick and dirty. </p><p>“Everything’s great.” </p><p>“Clancy,” she says, and you cut her off, “Everything’s great, I’m being social. I just got back from a party, you wouldn’t believe how healthy and social and non-iso— isola— fuckin’ not alone I was.” </p><p>You can hear her knuckles bump the receiver when she drags her hand over her chin. “That’s great.” </p><p>“Yeah, it <i>is</i> great,” you say, “so fucken’ social. I’m doing so good. Fuck, Sarah, you should’ve seen me, they couldn’t keep their hands off me.” </p><p>A spatter of your own drool hits your chest and slides down towards your belly button.</p><p>“What?” she says. </p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” and a few more <i>yeah’s</i> come out because you “found” your g-spot— which is a bad way to say it, it’s not like you’re gonna lose it— and you’re practically riding your own fucking hand, “kept callin' me cute. Y'think I’m cute, Sarah?”</p><p>“Clancy, I can’t— you need to enunciate, honey, are you sure you’re okay?"</p><p>“Yeah, call me honey,” you breathe, because you’re getting off on this now, you guess, what the fuck else have you got to do? </p><p>“Someone was, someone was touching you?” </p><p>“A couple someones, yeah, man, Jesus— there was like, three, four, dunno. Just all over me.” Breathe in, breathe out; your lungs rasping, acid in the back of your throat right on the raw, sore spot those someones left there. “Was fucken' great, they called me pretty... I came like, a gazillion times.”</p><p>She’s quiet.</p><p>“It felt so good, sis... wish you could’ve seen me. I was the big star of the show— living to the fullest, yeah?”</p><p>You shove a fourth finger up your cunt so it’s only your thumb sticking out and scrubbing against your thigh; just another open wound to prod. “Think mom would be proud?” </p><p>Dialtone.</p>
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